Freddie: Back From Bangkok
by Thomas the Miller
Summary: Freddie Trumper has returned from the World Chess Championship in Bangkok, Thailand with some interesting thoughts on his mind. Hints of future Freddie/Anatoly. Rated T for Language. After all, it is about Freddie.


**Disclaimer: I do own a Chess Set, but I don't own Chess. **

**AN: I wrote this story about a year ago when I was challenging myself to write a decent Chess fic. It's not entirely easy to accurately depict the characters, and I figure that this was one of my best attempts. While re-reading this today, I thought that I'd post it, even though I haven't posted any stories in several years now. But hey, I may as well. I'm debating whether or not to leave this as a one shot. There are loose ends I could tie up, but I'm not sure if I want to. Review and let me know what you think!**

**New York City: 1985**

When Freddie Trumper arrived back in New York, he was exhausted. He was sick of interviews, and sick of working for Walter de Courcey. _Well, that's too bad_, he thought. _I'm stuck with the bastard and his television company at this point. _He knew he'd lost Florence for good. There was no longer a doubt in his mind that she loved Anatoly. She could never be with Anatoly, of course, but…._she'd never want to be with me again_, Freddie finished. _I was an ass, and I probably don't deserve anyone, let alone her. _

Freddie walked lazily across the crosswalk, his eyes downcast. BEEP! The horn of a taxi jolted his mind back to reality. The crosswalk sign had moved to stop. "Shit," he muttered. He dashed the rest of the way across the street, desperate to get to the nearest Subway Station. _I just need to go home and take a nap,_ he repeated to his mind, over and over again. He did need to go home and sleep, of course. He never got much sleep when he was away. Just being involved at the World Chess Championship had caused him countless sleepless nights. He had truly believed that giving up competitive playing would help….and then it didn't. But sleep wasn't the only thing. Freddie desperately wanted some peace, but he knew that not even sleep could give him that. Not anymore, not now that Florence wasn't there, not knowing if he could make things right…..yet, not with Florence, but with _Anatoly. _He didn't need to make things right with Florence; no…they would never be right again. But Anatoly… Freddie smirked, as he thought, _we could have been friends…_ It was an odd sensation, even for Freddie, but ever since departing from Bangkok, the image of the Russian Grandmaster's face was ingrained in his mind. Even now, outside of chess, Anatoly Sergievsky was still haunting Freddie Trumper.

Freddie stood underground now, in a Subway tunnel. There had been no more taxi accidents, thank God. It had worried Freddie to no end that he had been so careless. He knew what New York City traffic was like. Hell, he'd lived there for years! He stared up at the incoming train board, and prayed that he wouldn't catch the wrong track. It seemed likely at the moment. "Green Line Approaching!" he heard the speaker announce. _Okay, my train,_ Freddie thought. _One of the few things I'm actually sure of in my life right now…_ The wind whistled in Freddie's ears as the train zoomed down the tunnel. It came to a screeching halt. The doors flung open, and Freddie walked inside. It was one forty five in the afternoon, so the train wasn't particularly crowded. The only passengers were a teenage girl singing along to some dreadful rap music and a knitting elderly lady. Freddie went and sat down across from the knitting lady, and as far away from the girl as possible.

The train took off, and Freddie stared out the window at the blackness passing by. "Had a bad day dear?" Freddie looked up from his reverie to realize the knitting lady was speaking to him. "Fuck off," Freddie mumbled, and he turned back toward the window. The knitting lady was not taken back at all. Instead she looked at Freddie, said, "Poor thing," and threw one of her finished scarves at him. "This scarf will make you feel better!" Freddie picked up the scarf, and rubbed the yarn in his fingers. It was a white scarf, with black fringes. He flung it back, a cold laugh ringing from his lips. "That's bullshit! Its 96 degrees out there. If heat stroke will make me feel better, then you're on to something. Besides, here's my stop." Freddie got up and headed to the door. The old lady did as well. "Don't tell me this is your stop too," he groaned. "No," the woman responded, "but take the goddamn scarf." She put the scarf in Freddie's hand, and he walked away, figuring he'd burn the thing when he got home. The colors reminded him too much of chess, and, of course, Sergievsky.

Freddie's apartment was just up the street from the Subway Station, so it didn't take him long to get home. As soon as he unlocked the door and kicked off his shoes, he was asleep on the sofa, all thoughts of Anatoly, chess, and the scarf forgotten.

He slept for a good four hours, and then the phone call came. BRRING! Freddie jumped up off the couch, and rushed to the phone. He looked at the caller ID. Walter de Courcey. "You've got to be kidding me," Freddie said, with a sigh. "If he really expects me to talk about Bangkok, he's kidding himself." Freddie walked back to the sofa and lay down again. The answering machine went off. "Hello, Freddie. This is Walter de Courcey. I have some business to discuss with you. It really can't wait. I suppose you may not be home yet. Of course, it's either that, or you're angry about what I did to Florence….but it was for everyone else's…." _I should have known a four hour nap was all I could hope for,_ Freddie thought. He got up and picked up the phone. "Hello Walter." "I should have known you were trying to ignore me," de Courcey said. "I was sleeping. And now I've woken up feeling groggy as hell, thanks to you," Freddie snapped. "Now, don't get touchy Freddie! I just wanted to tell you to meet me for dinner." "What if I don't want to?" Freddie challenged. "You know you've got no choice in that, Freddie. You work for me. But wherever you want to go, the food's on me." "How about you just meet me at Starbucks nearest to my apartment? I'm not hungry, but I need some damn caffeine, as I clearly can't get any sleep." "You need to eat dinner," Walter said. "Besides, we can't discuss everything in a…a…Starbucks. We could have Thai food…." "That's the _last _thing I'd want to eat Walter!" Freddie was practically shouting at the top of his lungs. "You sure as hell should know that! I can order myself Chinese takeout or pizza. Then I can eat dinner _without you_, and all I have to do is meet you for coffee. The end." "You never were one for compromise," Walter said with a sigh. "Starbucks it is." Freddie hung up the phone. He was never much of a coffee drinker, but desperate situations called for desperate measures. It was really tempting not to meet de Courcey at all, but then, Freddie knew, his job would disappear. Just like his parents, just like Florence.

Freddie meant it when he said he wasn't hungry. All he'd wanted to do was sleep. He knew he didn't have time to lie back down before he had to meet Walter, but he figured the least he could do was unpack his luggage. He unzipped his suitcase to find the expected pile of dirty clothes, but there was something else that caught his eye; a white king. He had forgotten all about it in his rush to return to New York, forgotten Sergievsky's last farewell. A genuine smile spread across his face, for the first time in over a year. He picked up the little chess piece, twirled it around in his fingers, and pressed it to his mouth. Then he looked at the scarf. He walked over and took it from the sofa. "Damn you, Anatoly," he whispered. He wrapped the white king in the scarf, and then walked out the door to meet Walter.

Freddie opened the door to Starbucks, finding de Courcey already there, waiting. _I hope this meeting ends quickly,_ Freddie thought. He went to the counter and ordered a Venti Caramel Macchiato. He didn't like coffee much, but he couldn't pass up the caffeine. He also got a chocolate chip muffin. His appetite was returning, a phenomenon he attributed to the little white king. Freddie didn't get it. Thinking about Anatoly a few hours ago was making him sick, and now that he found that one stupid chess piece he felt worlds better. It wasn't as if that one gesture of kindness meant Anatoly actually _cared_. On the contrary. Anatoly only cared about Chess.

Freddie's train of thought was interrupted as the girl behind the counter handed him his drink. He went to the table where Walter was waiting for him. "Glad to see that you actually came, Freddie," de Courcey said. "Only because it's my job, Walter." Freddie took a sip of his caramel macchiato, sat down opposite de Courcey and said, "I just got back from Bangkok earlier today. Tell me what you want, and make it quick. I need sleep." Walter laughed derisively. "Oh, I don't think you'll be needing sleep after you drink that coffee. In any case, I already know where and when next year's tournament will be." "So you aren't here to talk about Florence?" Freddie asked skeptically. "No, I'm not," Walter responded, "although we haven't had any luck finding her father…." Freddie clenched his fist under the table. It was hard resisting the urge to punch Walter square in the face. "You shouldn't have used her like that," Freddie said. "She's already been through enough, and then you and Molokov toyed with her emotions and lied to her. She never belonged in the Chess world…. I hope she gets a job and meets someone who will make her happy again. In any case, tell me what you wanted to tell me so we can both get the hell out of here." Walter sighed. "Always the cheery one, aren't you? The chess championship is in Toronto, in January." "Soon, huh?" Freddie asked. "Looks like I only get a few months worth of quiet. Who's Anatoly playing?" "Some Spaniard…Gustave Jacinto," Walter said, whilst drumming his fingers on his drink lid. "From what I here, he's a pretty smart fellow, but his chess playing skills are not, well, what it takes to beat our dear friend Tolya." Freddie took a bite of his muffin. "Of course," Walter continued, "Chess isn't as much about the game as it is the mindset one is in while playing. Isn't that right Freddie?" Freddie nearly choked on his muffin. He looked up at Walter. "What did you say? I was _not _off my rocker two years ago! No matter what anyone else believes. And we both know that precious _Tolya _can play chess brilliantly even in a bad state of mind." "Jealous?" Walter asked, an insufferable smirk on his face.

Anger. Freddie was used to the feeling, and he didn't react to it well at all. He got up seething, glared at Walter, said, "Screw this," and walked to the door. But Walter wasn't moved. He just sat there, in that stupid Starbucks, with that stupid smirk on his face, before he said, "Remember Freddie. January in Toronto." Freddie turned around and gave a jerky nod, and then left Starbucks and Walter de Courcey_, _hopefully for good the next few months.

_How could I have let De Courcey get to me like that?_ Freddie scolded himself. The walk back to his apartment was a short one, but it was enough time for Freddie's thoughts to spin out of control. _Why do I have such stupid reactions every time I think about that goddamn Russian? I'm supposed to hate his guts…I do hate his guts. That's it. I only hate him. There's my problem…_

**AN: So, I'm not sure if there were actually any Starbucks in New York in the 1980s. I know it existed, but I'm not sure if it expanded. I just wanted to write about a place I'm familiar with. So, pardon the historical inaccuracy that probably exists there...**_  
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